The Purity of Purpose: An Alladhiir Alkanthos story
by Adrassil
Summary: This is the origin story of Alladhiir, a prince of the High Elves, the how he left Ulthuan to become a low life mercenary in the Old World. Why he came to hate the gods, and the reasons he began his quest to become the greatest swordsman the world will ever know.


Slowly he awoke, his gaze greeted by an eternal watery blur of black and white.  
He couldn't recall who or even what he was, his sight, his memory, everything was just a haze.

For how long he laid and fought for consciousness, he had not a clue. Six times over that period of time he almost lost himself, almost allowing his heavy eyelids to forever slam shut. But every single time some strength within him would force them to snap open, back to the view of the blur of black and white.

All the while he struggled to recall anything of himself, why was he here? What was his name? Did he have a mother? A father? But no matter how hard he tried everything still remained a mystery.

Terror soon began to overtake him, was he doomed to never remember, to forever wander the world without knowing anything of himself?

Finally after what seemed to be forever, his vision began to clear, the watery smear of black and white slowly transformed into a starry clear night sky.

For few seconds he was truly at peace, the fear gone as he lost himself in the beautiful sky.

But that peace did not last long as in one horrific, violent moment everything rushed back.

Memory after memory flew through his bewildered mind, he remembered he was an elf an Asur of Ulthuan. He was born and raised in the Ulthuan kingdom of Saphery, he had never known his mother, she had disappeared mysteriously merely a month after his birth, nor did he know his father who died in battle only a few months before his birth.  
He was raised by his grandmother; Falindith a powerful and respected Archmage and Caradrith, Bladelord of the swordmasters, his grandmother's dedicated bodyguard.

He wasn't a normal Asur, he was a prince, a prince of the province of Arlyandor situated in northern Saphery. But as yet a prince only in name as it was his grandmother who still stood as steward, as he was to young, too inexperienced to rule. But this fact was never a grievance, in fact he had always preferred it that way.

And his name was Alladhiir, prince Alladhiir Alkanthos of Ulthuan and the simple, simple recollection of his name brought him more joy than anything else, and he was alive some how he was still alive.

With this realisation his senses suddenly returned, but he had no idea they were ever gone.

His hearing allowed him to hear the almost comforting constant and chaotic crackle and pop of fire, his sense of touch allowed him to feel the intense heat of the inferno on his face, his sense of smell made him gag at on the staggering stench of cooking flesh and fat and his sense of taste caused him to cough as he felt the ash on his tongue and the dryness of his parched mouth.

Then the pain came, an ache which echoed from head to toe, the familiar feel of a body which was pushed to it's very limits and beyond, he tried to groan, but it came out a mere mutter from his sore raw throat.

They were ambushed, thousands of Druchii emerged from amongst the rocks, many to rain black crossbow bolts upon them before anyone Asur could even begin to raise their shields or notch their bows, while many more ran down the cliff side, to charge onto their open flank, spears lowered and snarling with sharpened smiles.

The thought caused an immediate surge of panic that hit Alladhiir like a punch to the guts, making him suddenly sit bolt upright despite the ache of his limbs and what he saw stole his breath away.

On the mountain pass below, the bodies of Asur littered the snow and stone, this was what was left of the once noble force gathered by his grandmother to reinforce the struggling Asur defenders in the north. Four hundred spearmen, two hundred archers and one hundred of the elite Swordmasters of Hoeth now lay dead and the ten horse drawn supply carriages were all engulfed in raging fires, fires that should not have been so intense at such a altitude and that spewed think, black smoke high into the sky.

But to some grim satisfaction many, many more dead, black armoured Druchii, the despised Dark Elves, littered the landscape.

Alladhiir clenched his teeth and had to blink rapidly to fight back the tears, all the death, all the devastation it was overwhelming, no amount of training could have ever begun to prepare him for this.

He tore his attention away from the pass and to his immediate surroundings, all around were the bodies of the regiment of Swordmasters he had travelled with, all laid shattered and scattered, without rhyme or reason.

This Alladhiir found that hard to understand, he had fought along side them, he had seen them react with supreme discipline, turning swiftly, stoically to face the Druchii ambushers.

It was Alladhiir's first taste of battle, he could remember the fear that threatened to over take him, the fear that threatened to eat away his resolve and years of training. But more than anything else he remembered the rush, the incredible rush, which intermingled with the fear, diluted it into something that made him...Feel good, not just good but amazing, the blood sang through his veins, never had he ever felt so alive.

So Alladhiir with sword of striking raised and enchanted shield at the fore met the Druchii tide head on with a deafening crash he would never forget as swords and spears met shields, armour and bone.

Alladhiir allowed instinct to take over, instinct honed razor sharp from countless hours of training and toil. His sword darted like quicksilver, slashing and stabbing through the Druchii defences, his shield bashed and blocked while he dodged and ducked attacks that made it through his defences, as the Vambraces of defence he wore enhanced his speed and reflexes to new heights.

But the Swordmasters they somehow turned chaos into perfect regimented order, their great swords danced and darted in harmonious cohesion.

But for every one Druchii felled, two would take their place. How so many had infiltrated so far behind the front line, Alladhiir did not know, but he could not help but strongly suspect sorcery to be involved.

Finally he found what he was looking for; his master the Blade Lord, Caradrith lay like every other corpse. A spear stabbed into his chest.

Alladhiir found he couldn't fight back the tears anymore as they flowed freely down his face.  
Caradrith had always seemed indestructible, always so strong and sure.

But another thought override this, how could Caradrith who Alladhiir could clearly recall standing strictly at his side during the entire encounter.

What had happened? How was he still alive, when his master who seemed no matter how long or how hard the young prince trained, he in their countless sparring matches, could never defeat Caradrith, and that confused Alladhiir, how could Caradrith who had decades upon decades of experience over him, be dead?

Countless more unanswerable questions flew through his thoughts but they were all chased away as he saw...

Without hesitation Alladhiir was suddenly on his feet and running, ignoring the horrifically painful protests of his aching weary limbs.

He sprinted, bounding over countless corpses all the while hoping that it wasn't, that it couldn't.

But it was and as he came close, he abruptly fell to his knees as the racking pathetic sops overtook him.

His grandmother lay limp and lifeless, her large blank eyes wide, staring up at the night sky. Her stomach had been sliced open, her entrails hanging out freely.

Alladhiir had known she was dead the very second he had regained his memory, but that wasn't what caused him to sob and sniff so strongly, no.  
He knew without doubt that the death his grandmother had suffered was one of the slowest and most painful imaginable. She took along time to die and was in utter agony the entire time.

She was the kindest most beautiful being he had ever known, wise, giving and selfless in a way Alladhiir could never hope to ever be.

He gathered her in his arms and held her close, well aware of the blood staining his Dragon armour and cloak but couldn't have cared less. She didn't deserve this fate, she deserved this the least of anyone.

For how long he clutched her and wept he had no clue, but after he wiped away his tears and laid her down and gently closed her eyes, sudden rage boiled to the surface, rage beyond anything he had ever felt or ever would since.

His grandmother the kindest, gentlest person this world would ever know, how could she have befallen such a fate? And how could the supposedly almighty gods to whom she had spent countless upon countless of hours worshipping and paying tribute to, allow this?

What was the point of worshipping gods that only stand back and allow such injustices occur? What was the point?

He clenched his teeth and viciously punched the stone.

He felt like roaring his rage up at the sky, at the useless gods his grandmother had loved with all her heart and soul.

If they were so powerful, why were the Asur slowly dieing out?

If they were so all so all seeing how had the Druchii so successfully been so far behind the front lines to organize this ambush?

If they were so caring, how could they have allowed his grandmother to die such a horrific death?

With every question, the enraged Alladhiir punched the rock at his knees, his armoured fist clanging with every impact.

Finally Alladhiir stopped and turned to glare up at the heavens as a sudden, strange calm over took his once overwhelming rage. His mind was now clear, clearer than it had ever been before or ever since.

It was then, when he knelt on that rocky mountain over pass, amongst, the countless corpses, that he swore that never would he ever bow to any god, not the gods of the Asur, not the god of the human Empire, nor the accursed gods of the Druchii or Chaos.

That from this day on he would rely on himself and only on himself and to spite the gods, to show that everyone that the worship of these deities was useless he swore one day he would become the greatest warrior the world would ever know, greater than the infamous Prince Tyrion, greater even than the legendary Aenarion and he would do so without the aide of any god.

With this he looked down at the armour he wore, his Vambraces of Defence, his Dragon Armour, while on his belt was the empty sheath that held his Sword of Striking and somewhere else was his Enchanted shield, all of which were magical items given to him by his grandmother and worn by his long dead father and his father before him.

Briefly, Alladhiir considered getting rid of them, but quickly decided against it, they were all crafted by his ancestors, by the hands and efforts of mortal Asur, infused with magic developed by mortal Asur. Some may think him a hypocrite for keeping them equipped, "that magic was a gift from the gods."

Alladhiir shook his head, no, magic was a gift from the world, a gift that was further refined by mortals.

He shook away the thought and slowly climbed back to his feet, grunting in pain as his aching limbs flared horribly with the movement.

Alladhiir paused to look briefly back to his grandmother, she was dead there was nothing more he could do for her, then he turned away and began to search for his missing sword and shield.

It did not take him long to find his sword and shield as they were very near where he had lain and they were lain neatly, as though someone had set them there, his sword on the right, and his shield on the left.

At this Alladhiir's eyes widened with surprise and he glanced over his shoulder at his grandmother. Had she done this? He couldn't help but wonder.

He shook his head and looked away, that was the only explanation he could contend to be viable and he leaned over to retrieve his weapons, slinging the shield over his shoulder and sheathing his sword.

Alladhiir stood silent for a while gazing down onto Saphery below, his long brown hair being blown around by the cold high altitude winds.

He felt strange, almost light headed and it wasn't just from the lack of oxygen, he felt clear, pure like he had been born again.  
Was this what purity of purpose felt like? Because it felt truly, truly good, invigorating, inspiring.

Alladhiir shook himself from his reverie, now wasn't the time to stand around, there could easily be Druchii still about.

Ignoring his aching limbs, Alladhiir started slowly down the pass, trying the entire time to cling to the shadows.

He had never been that great at being stealthy, having lacked much of the necessary training in it, but he had always a natural affinity for it.

It may have been because his mother was a Shadow Warrior of Nargaythe, so perhaps the skill was somewhat hereditary?

Again Alladhiir shook away the thought, he needed to concentrate, not allow his mind to wander so much, he had a bad habit of it, a habit that both his master and Grandmother had attempted to to break him out of.

Alladhiir frowned and at the thought of them, he would miss them, life will never, ever be the same.

He clenched his teeth, stopped and hunkered down behind a large boulder and wondered; what was he to do? Head north, over the mountains toward Averlorn as they had initially intended? Or go south, back to his city?

Alladhiir gazed grimly over over the destruction, the beautiful view of Saphery ignored, thinking.

The first thing he needed to do was to search for survivors, Alladhiir couldn't comprehend that there would be any amongst that mess, but he couldn't just leave without at least looking.

With a heavy sigh, Alladhiir stood and hesitantly began the horrid task.

For three horrid hours, Alladhiir searched. At first he did so gingerly, moving bodies with the point of his sword or with movements of his shield. But it did not take long for the slow inefficiency to frustrate him, so it was soon he found himself using his hands, roughly pushing and lifting with animal like grunts of pain and strain.

At every single slight sound he would suddenly stop and looked, tired, hooded eyes darting for the sound's source. He knew well the danger he was in, but he could not leave if there was even the slightest chance of another survivor.

Although it was not selflessness that drove the young prince, no, he wasn't like his grandmother and never would he contend to be either, if Alladhiir could find one Asur in a somewhat healthy condition working with them would increase his own chance of survival if they encounter any remaining Druchii ambushers.

If he found any too badly injured he would give them the release they deserved with his sword.  
Realistically that would be all he could do, having no practical knowledge in medicine.

Many times the stench overcame him, causing him to stop and spew, this occurred seven separate times within the first hour before he finally became acclimatised. Alladhiir had never had the strongest of stomachs and now it certainly showed, much to his rage and frustration.

It didn't take long for blood to be smeared all over his face, for it to mat into his hair, to flood into his mouth, to flow up his nostrils and soak through his cloak.

All the while he had to fight a constant war against his weary, aching limbs, his eyelids that refused to stay open and the cold, the bitter constant cold which ate into him always enhancing the aches and pains further.

After those three long arduous hours Alladhiir found he wasn't even a third of the way through, so many bodies, so many dead, so, so many.

It was when Alladhiir was on the verge of giving up, when he heard the noise, a slight muffled groan and in a split second he had his sword drawn, shield in hand, the tip of his sword pointed in the noise's general direction.

Almost immediately he heard another groan and quickly and carefully Alladhiir slipped toward it's source.

He found it came from underneath a dead Asur archer, whose expression was utterly impassive, despite the black crossbow bolt embedded in his skull.

With his sword held ready to strike and his heart beating a mile a millisecond, Alladhiir reached out and ripped the body away.

He found another Asur, underneath, another Asur wearing the robes of an archer and who couldn't have be much older than Alladhiir, he was covered head to toe in blood, but otherwise seemed utterly unhurt.

It took Alladhiir along time to register it, to comprehend it. He couldn't understand; why had this archer survived but not his grandmother? Or Caradrith?  
Why!?

The anger abruptly raged back, causing him to clench his teeth and grip his sword and shield all the harder.

What gave this archer the right to live over his beloved grandmother!

For awhile he stood, fighting against the horrifically powerful urge to plunge his sword straight into the heart of the mumbling, unconscious archer.

In the end it was one thought that stayed his hand; why was he alive? Why was he alive and not his grandmother? She was a better being than he could ever hope to be, she deserved to live more than he as well, more than anyone.

Alladhiir shook his head and his jaw twitched, suddenly utterly ashamed of his foolishness, he had come so close to murdering an innocent over such a petty and pathetic reason, it sickened him more than his many hours searching through the corpses.

He was no better than the Druchii.

This thought suddenly sobered him, causing him to straighten and blink as though slapped, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

He was to make sure that this Archer lived, no matter what.

With a heavy sigh Alladhiir began to gather the Asur in his arms, besides if he lived then Alladhiir would have a higher chance of living himself.

Alladhiir sat near the burning blaze of the carriage, his elbows on his thighs and his hands curled together in front of his face. Taking warmth from one of the blazing carriage wrecks. He had taken off his Dragon armour so the flames could warm his weary bones. Already he had eaten much of the small amount of the food he'd managed to scavenge from the wreckages. The rest he left for his fellow survivor. Which was easier said than done, as he constantly had to fight the hungry growl of his stomach.

With a frown Alladhiir eyed the unconscious archer, who lay not far away. Still unconcious, but Alladhiir could hear him mumble and moan incoherently. Perhaps living through some horrid nightmare. Was he reliving the recent battle? Or was it some other, more minor memory? Whatever it was it was of no concern of Alladhiir's.

Fighting the fatigue, Alladhiir gazed into the flames, his mind whirling through many things; trying to figure out why he was still alive, how the Druchii had managed to infiltrate so larger force, os far behind the front lines. How his grandmother had failed so spectacularly in foreseeing the ambush. In the end it always led to the same thing, the thought which he tried to avoid more than anything else; With his grandmother dead what was to happen to him? Was he to become a prince in more than just name?

The mere thought utterly terrified him, he wasn't ready to rule, he never wanted to rule. Being responsible for the lives of others scared him. What if he made a mistake? What if they hated him? He also had no intention in getting involved with convoluted politics of the Asur.

His grandmother had spoken of it on several occasions, she had always hated their people's obsession with plotting and politicking, and Alladhiir had inherited that hatred.

The sudden loud groan from the archer brought Alladhiir out of his reverie and his attention snapped back to the archer. Alladhiir hoped his companion hadn't suffered some, unseen internal injury.

Alladhiir sighed and turned away as he saw his companion was okay, taking a sip from his hip flask, but the water barely helped his sore, parched throat and cracked, dry lips.

Now was not the time to dwell on such thoughts, if the archer was suffering from just a injury, there was nothing Alladhiir could do. He barely knew anything of the healing arts beside the brief flick through of a book or two.

During that time a surviving Druchii could've easily snuck up behind him and slit his throat. The thought caused him to quickly glance over his shoulder, his sharp eyes searching every shadow for something, anything which could be a threat. Yet he found nothing. Where the remaining Druchii had gone, Alladhiir could only speculate upon. Assuming that there were actually any remaining at all, perhaps the entire Druchii force was wiped out? The last of the Asur sacrificing themselves to make sure the Druchii couldn't continue rampaging through Saphery.

It was a noble thought, one which Alladhiir truly hoped had happened, but his deeply cynical side very much doubted it.

Alladhiir shook away the thought and slowly, laboriously climbed to his feet, his aching frame protesting all the way. As quickly as he could manage, which wasn't quick at all, he slipped his armour back on and took another sip from his flask. Wondering what he was to do next.

As far as he could see there were only two options, either head south, back to his home or continue northward, through the mountain range and into Avelorn.

South seemed the best, most logical option as the trek over the mountains would be hard and long and he was not sure his body in it's current state could handle it. Especially if he had to aide his fellow survivor, who may not have been as fortunate as him in escaping injury.

A sudden thought hit him, causing his eyes to turn into murderous slits and his attention snapped back to the young archer.

What if this Asur wasn't who he seemed to be? What if he was a spy left behind by the enemy? What if one of the Druchii sorceresses had placed a spell upon him to turn him into one of their unwilling servants? That could explain why this elf had survived while all the others lay dead.

Aladhiir's eyes widened as another idea occurred, what if he was the one that had the magic controlling him? What if they both had?

He clenched his teeth and looked at his hand as he flexed his fingers.

If he was truly controlled by some spell, would he even be able to come to such thoughts?

Alladhiir had never been particularly good at magic, despite his grandmothers many attempts at teaching him it. He'd always preferred the sword, nothing could beat going head to head against a worthy opponent in the sparring yard. Alladhiir could hardly imagine how amazing the rush must be when fighting a worthy opponent to the death.

But he had watched his grandmother practising her magical abilities in ways beyond his wildest imagination, he knew the power of magic and he knew it well.

A Druchii sorceress using it to manipulate his thoughts was well within the realms of reality.

Alladhiir sighed to himself again and rubbed his eyes. He was tired so, so tired. Every second was a battle to keep his eyes open.

Well if he was under some spell, his ally would have to be careful around him, Alladhiir intended to be careful of the archer even before he had thought of such a thing.

Alladhiir yawned and that was when the other Asur abruptly awoke, emitting a shrill shriek of fear and pain as he suddenly sat bolt upright. Causing Alladhiir to flinch in fright and cry out, clutching at his ringing, hurt ears.

The young Asur sat for a few seconds, gasping for breath as his eyes darting everywhere yet somehow failed in noticing Alladhiir standing nearby.

Alladhiir stood in silence, unsure what to say or do.

"I uhh," Alladhiir finally worked up the courage to say and the words, caused the nameless Asur's attention to snap suddenly on the prince, his eyes wide with an animal-like fear which froze Alladhiir in place, such was it's intensity.

"I uhm," said Alladhiir as he rose his hands slowly and deliberately to show he wasn't armed. "I am not going to hurt you."

Unless you try to hurt me first, he thought.

The other Asur continued to look at Alladhiir for an uncomfortably long time, then he blinked twice and a look of recogntion crossed his face.

"Prince Alladhiir?" said the Asur, his voice high pitched with confusion.

"Yes, it is I," stammered Alladhiir as he slowly lowered his hands and realising that it may have been pertinent to have stated his name earlier on.

The Archer's brow furrowed and slowly and now sanely surveyed his surroundings, Alladhiir following his attention across the corpse covered battlefield.

"What happened?" he asked, the expression of complete horror on his face, made Alladhiir's heart sink in his chest.

"You don't remember?" stammered Alladhiir.

"No!" bellowed the Asur, causing Alladhiir to flinch in fright again. "Where are we?" What happened? Why is everyone dead?"

"I, we, I, uhh," managed Alladhiir as he struggled to remember in what order each question was asked.

"We are in the mountains of northern Saphery!" he exclaimed as he suddenly recalled it. "We were going to Averlorn to reinforce the army there as the Druchii have yet again invaded in force! We were ambushed by a large force of Druchii and they were in far greater numbers than us. So we were overwhelmed. Defeated."

The young Archer didn't answer at first, just stared at Alladhiir with wide fearful eyes.

"Is there anyone else?" he finally asked.

Alladhiir raised an eyebrow, "anyone else, meaning?"

"Any! Other! Survivors!" said the Archer through clenched teeth.

Alladhiir flinched back, as if struck, "as far as I have ascertained," he stammered, before he averted his attention to the ground with the sudden sadness. "It is just us."

The Asur raised his eyebrows, "just us? Really? Just us?"

Alladhiir's brow furrowed and his jaw clenched, he was really beginning to get sick of the Asur's tone.

"Yes it is just us," Alladhiir growled and his hands balled into fists. "Now would you give me the honour of giving me your name."

Now it was the other Asur's turn to start as if slapped, obviously seeing he had taken it too far, then his eyes fell to the ground.

"I apologise, my prince, I did not mean to be rude. "It is just a shock to wake up and see all this."

Alladhiir's jaw twitched and he flexed his fingers, but he slowly nodded, "believe me, I know exactly how you feel."

The Archer nodded and gazed guiltily away, "my name is Garlindil, my prince."

"Well hello, Garlindil," said Alladhiir haltingly.

Then for a long time afterward they stayed in a awkward silence.

Alladhiir was already finding he didn't like this, Garlindil, but quickly the Prince tempered such thoughts. He was tired and so very irritable. Garlindil was just at the wrong end of it. Alladhiir decided, perhaps he should give the Archer the benefit of the doubt. After just waking to see such a scene and lacking any memory of the how and the why of it, Garlindil was justified in his reaction.

Alladhiir was broken from his train of thought as he heard muted whispering and turned to see Garlindil, was knelt on his knees and whispering into his entwined hands.

Praying.

Alladhiir could barely deny the sudden contempt and rage that hit him, like a crashing wave against the shore.

"What are you doing?" Alladhiir demanded.

Immediately Garlindil stopped and looked at him, "why I am praying of course, prince."

"Why?" growled Alladhiir, through clenched teeth.

For a short time, Garlindil was silenthe just looked at Alladhiir with an uncertain expression.

"Why I pray to Isha, for all the good Asur who have died this day. I pray for them, I pray that they rest in peace."

Alladhiir didn't reply he just glared witheringly at Garlindil, there was little point in praying for the dead, in fact there was little point in praying at all. Garlindil could have used that time as Alladhiir had, doing something useful and searching for survivors.

"Is there something wrong, prince?" stammered Garlindil.

"No nothing's wrong," growled Alladhiir. "Carry on."

Garlindil gazed at Alladhiir with distinct bemusement, then he went back to his praying.

Alladhiir turned his back on the Archer, laid on his side against the hard ground and closed his eyes while trying to block out that incessant whispering.

Then almost immediately, he fell into a fitful sleep.


End file.
